


sweet and heady, like my love

by myriadThalassas



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-08-26 12:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadThalassas/pseuds/myriadThalassas
Summary: He is in love, love, love, love.(He's not supposed to be able to.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocakola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocakola/gifts).



> cocakola: I don't know you, but I saw that you wished for more content on these two. I rushed this out on my phone in response. Sorry in advance.
> 
> Title is from Lilac Wine by...a lot of artists, but I like Jeff Buckley's version a lot.

He is in love.

He realizes this when Will's back is turned, taking a short break from lugging his best mate's sofa up the stairs. "I don't know how you get me to keep helping you with these sorta things," he had said in between breaths. "I should get paid for this."

"Oi," he had sniped back from the other side of the couch, "none of that talk when it hasn't even been ten minutes yet. 'sides, I dunno why you bother, either. Normally you just lair in your bedroom all day."

"Normally," Will agrees. "You're special, though."

The tone he uses is an excellent facsimile of seriousness, so much so that Stephen almost believes him, lets quizzical silence fall. Luckily, he doesn't have to break it himself once he realizes: the other man does that for him, laugh like a wild hunt, prompting him to follow along, albeit uneasily.

Yet pink still stains his cheeks despite his attempt to match Will's levity, and that--if he hadn't been what he had been--being that obvious would been enough to kickstart at least a quick jaunt into the respite of the washroom. Now, though--he excuses himself far too quickly when he feels the butterflies in his stomach intensifying, not bothering to parse the other's confusion as he runs up the half-flight of stairs to his new flat, slams the door shut, and coughs, onto the floor, a single, lurid petal.

He doesn't know how long he stands there staring whilst years of memories flit past, already pale face ghostlike with fear. This wasn't happening. He didn't fall in love. He _couldn't_ fall in love. Not after the last time, with Margaret--

"Ste," Will calls, pass half a flight of stairs and a flimsy apartment door. "You've been a bit. You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, 'm fine," he replies; when he remembers that there is distance between them, he repeats himself in a volume above a hoarse whisper.

"Great!" After a pause: "Now, get back down here! 's almost been ten!"

There is nothing out of the ordinary there--the words, the tone--that could be misconstrued. There was nothing there of _that_ sort; nothing, nothing at all. Stephen takes a deep breath, like he does whenever he feels the pre-standup jitters, and tries a smile. It feels almost natural.

"Still not paying you," he shouts back as he picks up the petal gingerly and throws it out the nearest window. His patented grin is back in full force when he bounds down the stairs; if Will notices the lack of lift around his eyes, he is too busy complaining to mention it.

The last few agonizing minutes are spent in heaves, pants, and friendly bickering, until, finally, they get the frustrating piece of furniture into the room.

"I've never seen a couch like this b'fore," the younger man comments suddenly, running his fingers over the varnished wood. "Pretty ornate carvings, innit? Weird shape, too. Where'd you get it?"

"It's a loveseat, actually, and..." To the question of its origin Stephen gives a non-committal shrug. Even if he told him the truth, it wasn't as if it was even a little believable. "...some sale, I guess. Don't remember, don't really care. Why?" He arches an eyebrow. "Never knew you were some sort of sitting furniture connoisseur."

Will gave a snort. "Didn't you just call it a loveseat?"

"Weren't you the one who took up engineering? Is this the syringe situation come again?"

They continue to banter for a while ( _too short a while_ , he thinks, and that thought he lets slide; he's always thought that, from the near-first moment they'd met) before the other looks at his phone and realizes the time. "Sorry, Ste," he says, and the other feels sick to his stomach when the first thing he thinks is that Will sounds almost outright disappointed. "I'll come back to help you unpack tomorrow, if you'd like?" 

__"No," Stephen replies, almost wincing at how forceful he sounded. Will's face said the same. "I mean...nah, it's alright. You're behind your already shite upload schedule as it is."_ _

__"You're one to talk," he snipes back, but his tone is fond (was it? Should he think it so?) as he says his goodbyes and leaves._ _

__The silence that follows the door closing would have been deafening to a human; he, cursed as he was, could hear Will's footsteps patter down the stairs, muffle in the carpet of the hallway, become enveloped in the sound of the sliding door, even as he sank down, down, down to the floor._ _

__He catches himself on the edge of the loveseat, trembling. "Will," he whispers to himself, testing the weight of the name on his leaden tongue. He always managed to be surprised when it failed him. "William Lenney," he repeats, louder, and _there _in the echo, he felt it: the butterflies, twirling all about the garden growing deep within his gut; the warmth behind his ears and cheeks and eyes. There was no denying it, even after all these years of enforced lack--he was in love. He is in love, love, love, love.___ _

___"Love," he says, and Stephen pulls back his head to promptly throw up all over his newly placed sofa, his cushions stinking of and sticky with red roses._ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a coffee shop and a bit of a cliffhanger. Thanks to TheDogLover for inspiring me to actually make this.

Will blinks.  
  
"So, alright, okay," he begins to reply, excruciating slowness Stephen didn't even think he was capable of, "you're trying to say...you're a _faerie_."

The tone the other used was so flat he was close to questioning his own existence. "Not fully, but...yeah," he says. Green eyes fixate on a particularly fascinating bit of lint stuck to the hem of his shirt; shit, did he have to clean out the washer already? "Why? Is it really that hard to imagine? Everyone in my comments already calls me a twelve year old; might as well have an actual reason for it."

" _Yeah_ ," Will echoes. "And they're not wrong, Ste, but..." The younger gestures towards the older, action as hopelessly bewildered as they both seem to feel. "You're not..."

"What? I'm not stick-thin pretty?" A part of Stephen knows that getting abruptly petty wouldn't solve anything; it would probably make the situation worse, if Will decided to leave, but dredging up old secrets meant old insecurities came with them. "Or maybe it's 'cause my eyes don’t sparkle with _mystery_ when I look at someone the slightest bit fit! Maybe it's the fact my ears are more Dumbo than Legolas?—"  
  
"Stephen," Will interrupts, and his voice is so matter-of-fact his anger stops right in its tracks, "don't be daft—you look great. was just going t' say I've never seen you do...magic, I guess." A shrug as the last few words escape, awkward in his mouth. "I dunno. I saw a few of ‘em around campus, back then: keyword _saw_. They weren’t…approachable, not like you are.“

He hopes that he isn’t turning red again; this time, sitting across from each other in some random coffee house, there was no physical exertion to excuse him, except perhaps going through his cup of disgustingly watered-down coffee. He takes a deep sip of of the liquid travesty in an attempt to hide his face; unfortunately, when he sets it back down on its chipped china plate he still feels the heat in his cheeks. “I’m not really the card tricks and vomiting handkerchiefs type,” he says instead, grasping onto the conversational thread that would least end up awkward (did Will really think he looked great?). “I don’t really do active magic in general—I can’t, actually.”

Stephen’s gaze finally dares to dart back to Will, and right away he wishes he hadn’t—he can feel the blooming softness beginning to rise in his throat. No, no, he thinks as the other opens his mouth to reply in slow motion—he had to keep this under control, at least; _this_ aspect of the whole mess he’d never bring anyone into in a million years.That’s how everything started, what she wanted to happen. At that moment he would have bet anything that, even now, she was watching him, watching _them_ (here his heart stopped), laughing all the while—

“Then…what _can_ you do?”

With that one sentence, the spell of panic is broken. More in his right mind now, he takes another swig of shitty coffee; though he swallows hard, he can still taste roses, cloying, on his tongue. The brunet, apparently oblivious to all this, leans forward with bright eyes, and for a moment he is reminded that once upon a time this man was to be an engineer. “I admit I didn’t listen too much in those classes,” he continues. “Not a lot of fae in my part of Newcastle, so I thought I’d never really have to meet one…well, other than George, but it was kinda obvious, innit?” A quick laugh, sheepish. “Sorry, mate. I guess I’m still in shock.”

“S’okay.” He smiles back, small, lopsided and thoroughly genuine. “Well, other than look like I’ve yet to go through puberty, not much, really. As far as I know, I’m not a muse like my dad.”

“A muse?”

“Yeah. You know…” He strikes a pose that may, to a near-blind man, be a rough approximation of an innocently coquettish type fluttering her shaded eyelashes. “Someone who _inspires_ people, makes ‘em write their best work. Pure creativity, or thatabouts.”

“You sure that isn’t you?” The remark comes out surprisingly casual, considering Will’s attention is mostly on wiping away the drink he’d ejected through his nose. “The fans seem to think so, every time you show up in one of mine.”

“No.” Stephen’s answer is immediate. Then, slightly less serious: “God, I hope not. T’would be awful if all I was allowed to do was sit there and watch—well, if I couldn’t do anything.” He leans back in the ubiquitous overstuffed coffee house armchair, looking out the ubiquitous large glass window. “Just sitting there and looking pretty? I’d rather pass on that.”

“With your upload schedule, you’re already doing one of those things,” Will jokes, but the shine in his eyes is softer, even when the other gives him a halfhearted swat. “Still, I’ve got t’ ask,” he brings up in between both their giggles (and the other’s occasional hard swallows), “I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me and all, Ste, but I don’t see the ”problem” you were mentioning.”

The mirth melts off the redhead’s face at that. “Oh, well...” White fingers drum nervously against the tabletop. “I’ll need to tell you a story…”

**Author's Note:**

> Second fanfiction in years and it's still RPF on these two that also manages to fit in some fantasy and hanahaki disease. This is what my life has become. I also don't mind.


End file.
